My Own Thing
by C.R.Martin
Summary: It's the differences between us that pull us apart. They're also what pull us back together. What lead us back home. Two-shot experiment.
1. Chapter 1

**_My Own Thing_**

 **by Christopher R. Martin  
**

 _Note: This two-shot is my entry for a fan fiction contest that took place at a pop culture convention in Tasmania, Australia._

* * *

The city of Townsville. You know how it goes around here. A band of lowlifes show up from out of nowhere to steal stuff, hurt innocent bystanders or just make trouble. Or even better, a fifty-foot monster enters the city and smashes everything in its sight. And coming in to protect the city are three superpowered, crime-fighting kindergarteners.

You've heard it all so much before that I don't really have to explain it anymore. It's always been that way, and chances are that's how it's going to be for a very long time. For all the craziness that this city goes through, you can always expect things to turn out fine.

So there you go. These people always get their happy ending, and they owe it all to none other than The Powerpuff Girls.

I wish the same could be said for most of us superheroes, though. We _are_ the ones busting our chops here, after all. But that's not how life goes. Not by a longshot.

It's gotten dark now, and most of the citizens here do what they always do on a winter night. Going home after their nine-to-five daily grind, putting together dinner for the entire family, catching the latest episode of the newest hit TV series. The whole block I'm in is brightly illuminated by rows upon rows of streetlights.

As for me, I'm walking along the sidewalk, keeping to myself, a cigarette clamped in my mouth. I fire it up with my lighter and take a quick puff. No one pays mind to me whatsoever. Even when they see my fingerless hands and toeless feet or my huge green bug-like eyes, they don't bring it up. If I were flying instead, I'd be sticking out like a sore thumb. It's kinda nice to walk once in a while, if you ask me. Maybe I should do it more often.

I arrive at a building on the other side of an intersection. Inside, I head into the elevator and press the number five. The doors part to both sides revealing a corridor with even more doors on them. The one I'm looking for is at the farthest end of this hallway. I enter the crappy apartment unit, locking the door behind me and casually tossing the key to the side.

At the living room, I drop my coat on the sofa and pick up the remote. The TV flicks on to the nightly news where the anchor, good old Stanley Whitfield, segues the audience into the first story of the night. Guy sure loves his job if he's hanging onto it for this long. Some twenty-odd years, I think.

The report is nothing new, but I keep the TV on it anyway. It's about the monster attack that took place this afternoon over at the Townsville Docks. The monster in question is hideous as hell. More hideous than anything to ever come out of that island a few miles from here. It's a lizard-like thing with scales tough as iron, claws sharp as a sword and teeth that are pointed to the point where you can't see the tip.

Stanley goes into detail about the incident as footage of the monster's rampage plays on a small window. The second he mentions the word 'Powerpuff', streaks of pink and blue fly into the scene. Emerging from them are—who else?—Blossom and Bubbles, now much taller and more 'filled out'. He glamorizes the fight as much as possible, saying how even the fight was. How the monster almost had us beat, and how the tables were turned in a couple of minutes, even though that wasn't the way it really turned out. Y'know, the usual bullshit everyone else hears from the news.

But hey, it's his job. Who the hell am I to tell him how to do it?

He babbles on and on, ending with a recap of me and my sisters dragging the poor, hulking bastard back to his island and the aftermath of the attack.

What I don't expect is the report going off on a tangent, the footage appropriately changing focus. Now focusing on Blossom hovering in front of the beast's face and speaking to it directly.

" _Our newest sources indicate that the encounter began as a civil dialogue between the reptilian renegade and the leader of the Powerpuff Girls, Blossom. But the situation took a most sour turn after an unprovoked attack to the beast by the rowdiest of the Powerpuffs, Buttercup. And everything afterwards writes itself."_

As he says this, the camera zooms in on me hovering by the monster's stomach and giving it one of my trusty wind-up punches. It then pans—and by pan, I mean speedily dart—to lizard breath's straining, contorting face as he feels the full force of my fist. With an arch of his back and a loud roar, he goes on the attack, and so do the three of us.

Everyone in Townsville's already seen the upcoming part, so they move over to a new scene. This one has me, Blossom and Bubbles getting into an argument after the fight on top of one of the crates. It's mostly between me and Little Miss Redhead herself; Bubbles made it a point to stay out of our quarrels from now on. I guess she got sick and tired of having to put up with our shit and just accepted it as inevitable.

" _This is precisely what I'm talking about, Buttercup,"_ Blossom explodes on the television, flinging her arms to the sky. _"No matter how hard we try to get into that thick skull of yours, it's not going to change anything. It's always punch or be punched with you, huh?"_

" _Oh, give me a goddamn break,"_ I return, meeting her anger with my own. _"It's what we do, Blossom. You of all people should have that figured out by now. I mean, are you even fucking hearing yourself?"_

The report shows the rest of the conversation, but I don't hear any more of it.

" _The city of Townsville may be in one piece, but the rift between The Powerpuff Girls continues to grow. What the future holds for the guardians of this fair city is anyone's guess."_

I then turn the TV off and inhale the last of my cigarette, mushing the butt onto an ashtray on the coffee table in front of me. I recline along my sofa and sigh, my back arched over the backrest. My head is heavy with thought, bogged down in a marsh of emotions.

Five months. For five months I've lived in this shithole, a woman free to do as she pleases. As a legal adult—exactly eighteen years of age, in case you're wondering—I've every right to vamoose from my old house and lead my own life. That's what I've been doing. But despite the amount of time that's passed, it always feels like it's only been a few days.

Can you really blame me, though? I have my own brand of justice, and Blossom and Bubbles have theirs. The way I see it, it's all black and white to me. It's good or bad. No middle ground at all. My sisters aren't as straightforward; even if she likes getting in on the action, Blossom has always had this—I guess you can call it an inkling?—to try a different way. Now that we're older, she's leaning towards this 'different way' more than ever.

I don't get it. The way we usually handle things is tried and true. Bad guys or monsters cause a ruckus, the three of us break into the scene and kick some bad guy or monster ass, the day is saved, end of story. No talk, no negotiation, none of that bullshit. So why stop now?

I remember—or at least I think I remember—what Blossom said to me on my last day at the house. We were at the hallway on the second floor, where most of our bickering took place. She and I were butting heads and gritting our teeth.

" _Y'know, just because we have super strength doesn't mean we always have to resort to it. I hope you understand this, but I doubt you do."_

The last thing I did that day was fire off my laser eye at her and send her ploughing through the wall behind her. Not even the Professor's and Bubbles' begging could get me to stay. It's not that I didn't want to stay or that they didn't get to me, but it's just the way life goes. Fighting it is just going to be useless…

And the five million or so people of Townsville now know why. I wish we had done a better job keeping this Powerpuff business between us…well, Powerpuffs.

Son of a bitch… This really sucks.

I lie down on my sofa, and soon enough, it's lights out. Not a single dream visits me in my sleep, and I wake up at around seven fifteen at night. Getting up from the sofa, I bundle up, grab my keys and cigarette pack, and open my window. In my typical green streak, I jet out of my apartment unit and soar above the city for a bit. The cool nighttime breeze against my skin is relaxing. I'm as free as a bird. Nothing can ever replace this sensation. It's exactly what I need right now.

I fly around for a little bit before touching down at Townsville's entertainment district, by far the busiest part of the city. People are walking from every which way, making it kinda hard to see where I'm going. I blend in with the dense crowd and make my way down the street, tucking my face into the hood of my jacket and my hands in my pockets to keep from drawing attention.

The shops around me all have peculiar names like 'Fantasia' or 'Wonderland' or 'Heaven on Earth', but the signs that are up say otherwise. And before I know it, I come across a trio of bimbos in their draggy getups trying to hit on every other guy they see. Talk about a lack of dignity.

Coming up at an intersection, I wait for the light to change and cross to the other side, which leads into the obligatory Chinatown area. I continue down the sidewalk and towards the first building in this place. The sign dangling above me reads 'Cheng's Tried and True', and I couldn't agree more. A pretty long line stands before me, but it moves down fast enough, and in I'd say four minutes, I'm the next to be served.

"Next in line?" an old fart says from behind the window with an accent that just screams Chinese.

"Just the usual, Cheng," I answer him, pulling out a nickel, a quarter and a five. If the sound of my voice doesn't ring any bells in him, then my fingerless hands will.

Sure enough, he picks up on one of these signs, nods intently and gets down to business, all with a smile, too.

While he's busy whipping me up my dinner, I lean on the wall and whistle a familiar tune that I always hear in my head back when my sisters and I used to be in the crime-fighting business together. I guess you could call it our anthem.

As I'm whistling to myself, I notice the next customer in line giving me a funny look. And by funny, I mean the 'can't seem to mind his own fucking business' kind of look. Those nerd glasses he's wearing ain't doing him any favors, either. Just look how thick and big those goddamn things are! You could practically fit a photograph in those and _not_ have it scrunched up.

Ignoring it only works for so long, and eventually, I've gotten sick of his gawking.

"What? Got a problem, asshole?" I snarl at him, eyes narrowed and nose crinkled.

"Oh, no no no. Absolutely not," he says, probably pissing his pants right about now. I glance downwards, and he doesn't. He cowers where he stands, his teeth chattering like a maraca. "Please don't hurt me."

"And here you go. Just the way you like it," Cheng announces, putting a box on the sill for me to grab.

I roll my eyes at the geek and mutter, "Whatever." After grabbing my food and a pair of chopsticks, I take off, but not without showing gratitude. "Thanks as always, old man."

Moving away from the food joint, I can hear Cheng saying something in Mandarin. At first I think that he's irritated, but his tone and the light chuckle he makes say the opposite.

Anyway, I stroll down the way I came from, opening the box and breaking the chopsticks apart. The smell of freshly-steamed chicken flies into my nose, the taste smacking onto my tongue as I plop one piece in my mouth. A bombardment of flavor overwhelming my senses. Cheng sure doesn't disappoint when it comes to his trademark Kung Pao chicken. For most of the walk, I focus purely on my takeaway dinner. Nothing can pry my attention from it.

Well, maybe a few can. Just as I put in another mouthful, I hear a high-pitched wail coming from a little far from this district. That's what I assume because I'm the only one in this crowd who notices.

Groaning slightly, I zip up to the sky with my hands tightly gripping the box. A couple of scraps fly out of it, and it can't be helped. On my way to the source of the scream, I finish the last of my dinner as best as I can, but it's not easy while I'm flying at this speed. Some of the small pieces splatter my face, which throws me off even more. I've put in the last bite, but all those scraps that hit me soon lead to me smacking into a flock of birds. Shit… That _never_ happens to me.

After the flock flies off, I stop for a while to regain my bearings. Ugh. That's _one_ dinner that didn't go well at all. I hope I'll feel much better after pounding this poor perp's mug in.

If I can find him that is… One thing after another. First the monster fiasco at the pier, then my tiff with Blossom afterwards, and now my fucked-up dinner. Is it too much to ask that one thing today goes right?

Annoyed as I am, I hear a second scream and hurry to Fifth and Sixth. There's a woman over at an alley behind Mister Giuseppe's toy store. She's leaning against the wall as a thug points his knife at her. She's too frightened to even spot me hovering above, and he's too busy making his demands, whatever they are.

So I descend slowly behind them, making sure that neither of them see me as I get closer. The dude repeats himself, and I'm on the brink of throwing up at his words.

"Don't make me repeat myself, bitch. Get on your knees, unbuckle my belt and go to town. Got it?" he snarls, twirling his knife in his fingers. "What're you waiting for? Do it."

As he spins his weapon, I see him fumble it, which causes the blade to leave a gash on one of his fingers. He hisses and clutches his hand; this shouldn't be a problem.

"See what you made me do?" he growls, his breathing stiff from the open wound. I hear a zipping sound from where he stands, and he adds, "That does it. You're getting it now. Open wide, you whore!"

The forceful way he grabs the back of his head is my cue, and I walk in between the walls. Into the darkness. Putting on a poker face.

"You don't wanna do that, buddy," I start, the chill in my voice blending perfectly with the cool of the night. It stops him in his tracks and forces him to look over his shoulder. All he sees is someone who's poked her nose into someone else's business.

"Says who?" he retorts, pissed off and showing no fear. He doesn't realize that that's going to change shortly.

"Get away from her and come find out." The light from the moon moves a bit and unveils my mouth to him, and I lower my head at an angle so that it's the only part of me that he sees. I have my hands tucked in my pockets and don't pull them out. Not yet.

The thug does as I tell him and lets the chick's hair go, picking up his knife and making his way towards me. He hunches forward as well, his intent murderous. The light hits his face, and it's decidedly ugly. It's pale like the moon above us, there are bags under his eyes, and that rat's nest he calls a beard does him no favors. Not to mention that he probably hasn't bathed in months; the closer he gets to me, there's this noxious odor that nearly hijacks my head. That must explain why he's hiding in the dark and behind the hood of his jacket. Talk about pathetic.

"You've got a lot of balls poking your nose in someone else's business. Or is it pussy?" he says, not even paying attention to how disgusting he sounds. How disgusting he is, period. "Why don't we find out by seeing what's under those pants of yours?"

And there it is. He just had to push all of my buttons. He just had to do it. I really didn't want to do this…

Oh, who the hell am I kidding? Of course I do.

Now that he's pissed _me_ off, I stomp the ground so hard that it sends a tremor catching his right foot. Again, the knife slips from his hand. There's nowhere for him to go; that foot is as good as stuck.

To think that he could not look any more pitiful, seeing him struggling to yank his foot out of the chasm is icing on the cake. He's trying his best, but his best isn't going to save him. I crack my knuckles, and the noise gets under his skin. Now he's _really_ pulling that leg. And every attempt only wears him out.

I'm closing in on him, gathering ounce after ounce of strength in my hand. As soon as he sees me raise it, his eyes are wide as the moon and his mouth is dangling. I go to town on the guy, not even giving him any room to breathe. Left hook, right hook, left jab, right cross, left knee to the gut. That's the sequence of attacks I go with. It ends with an uppercut that sends him flying and crashing down like a rag doll. His knife slips from his hand, and I take my chance and pick the son of a bitch up.

And all the while, the girl who was screaming is still on the ground, staring on. It's hard to tell if she's rooting for or afraid of me. It could be either, or it could be both. Since she's not budging whatsoever and just saw me delivering one of my patented beatdowns, I assume it's the latter.

With the jackass in my clutches, I slam him against the wall and keep one hand free. I lift him up by the collar, and a flicker of fear flashes in his face. I glance down and avert my eyes from the piss stain.

"I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry," he pleads, squirming along the wall.

"Give me one good reason why I shouldn't punch your teeth down your esophagus," I mutter to him, staying calm in spite of the repulsion I've felt throughout this encounter.

"Please, I'm begging you! You don't have to do this! I swear, you'll never hear from me ever again after tonight."

"I dunno. Sounds too good to be true to me. Maybe we should ask her." I turn my attention to the woman, who's just as scared as the douchebag who almost forced his junk down her throat. I don't know why, she should be glad that a Powerpuff Girl's dishing out some justice on her behalf. "What do you think?"

The woman doesn't say a word. Not even a peep. She gets to her feet, and she's contemplating.

At the same time, the guy continues to shiver in my grasp. And…is he actually crying? Now that's just sad. He probably knows that there's no way in hell he's talking his way out of this.

 _Just because we have super strength doesn't mean we always have to resort to it._

Ngh… Really? Damn it, of all the times that I hear that self-righteous voice in my head. _Shake it off, Buttercup. Shake it off. Who the hell is she to decide for you?_

As if listening to her was bad enough, a picture of her face forms in the back of my mind. That picture starts flapping its mouth, and it spews the rest of her nonsense.

 _I hope you understand this, but I doubt you do._

I let out an annoyed growl that startles the woman slightly, and I barely notice the thug pulling out a second knife in his pocket. Before he gets a chance to use it, I fire off my laser eye just a few inches away from him. The blast grazes the fabric of his hoodie and a bit of his arm, and he puts the knife back in his pocket in an instant.

At this point, not only has he pissed himself, but he might have shat some bricks, too. On the corner of his eye, I see a small, gleaming bead dying to come out. Through his eyes, I catch a swift glimpse of my reflection. Of my angled void of a stare. I can't believe I'm doing this, but I actually take a moment to think about what Blossom said to me earlier today.

It may be because she's the self-proclaimed leader of our trio—well, it's a duo now, but you get where I'm getting at—but no matter what, there's always truth to be found in her words. No matter what, the stuff she says always has weight behind them, even if they can be a drag to listen to. That bit about not always having to resort to brute strength is no different.

One more look at this thug, and I realize that I've more than made my point. I've forced it down his throat, even. My mind changed, I head off into the night sky once again. But not without one quick thing to say to the chick.

"Be right back."

I then drag the guy over to the police station, where I give my cops my testimony. They do their part, cuff the guy, confiscate his knife and drag him over to an office to be processed.

After that's been taken care of, I jet back to the alley and find the woman standing on the sidewalk, noticing me flying above her. I land in front of her and check on her promptly.

"You alright?" I say to her. The only response I get is a slow, terse nod of her head. "You better take off now. This isn't exactly the kind of place you want to be in at this hour."

With that out of the way, I make my way back to my apartment. Only to be stopped by a voice.

"Hey," the chick calls out, catching up to me. "Thanks. Glad to see you can still be counted on."

Looking over my shoulder, I see the change in her expression. She's smiling now. It's not a big fat grin, but it's something. And something's always better than nothing. Letting out a single laugh, I finally take off and watch her wave her hand at me.

In a few minutes I've returned to my apartment. I sit on the balcony and help myself to another cigarette, which I ignite with my laser eye.

For quite some time, I bask in my solitude and watch the pale moonlight. Every breath that passes in and out of my mouth is a piece of me that's put at ease.

My thoughts swirl in an endless cycle, and I let them go on with their business before picking one out like some kind of raffle.

I wonder what the three of them are up to right now. The same old same old, I'm sure. Blossom brushing up on her algebra, Bubbles working on her drawings, and Professor Utonium whipping up another one of his crazy experiments. I wonder if they've brought down the number of windows in our room from three to two, or if the sheets on the bed are just pink and blue now.

Not that I didn't see this coming or blame them at all. This is where I am now, and this is probably how it's going to stay for God-knows-how-long. But I can't seem to let go of the three of them, nor do I want to. Wherever I go, whatever I do, I'm going to be led right back to them one way or another.

Maybe, just maybe, they could—nah!

The last of my cigarette burned out, I head back inside to get rid of the butt. Over by the door is an envelope lying idly on the floor.

On top of the flap and the adhesive is a smiley face sticker, complete with a pair of flushed cheeks. _Bubbles…_

A fragrant scent wafts from the object and makes me cough from how strong it is. _Blossom…_

And written on the back is 'To Buttercup' in crisp, neat-looking cursive writing. _Professor…_

When I open it, I find a formally-written invitation that's also in cursive. An invitation to the annual Christmas party at the Utonium household. How could I forget about this? How did a Powerpuff tradition ever slip my mind?

* * *

 **Gratuitous Plug** **Alert**

 _For those of you who don't know, I have a brand new YouTube channel. It's small as of now, but I hope to amass a following. If it's no trouble for you guys, I'd really appreciate it if you check the channel out at:_

 _https (: / /) (www) . you-tube (dotcom) (/) channel (/) UCrEyNe7lUaT4ARz8tomuyPg_

 _And don't forget to like, comment, subscribe, as well as letting me know in your review of this story what you think of the channel._

 _Thanks a lot._

 _\- Christopher R. Martin_


	2. Chapter 2

_**My Own Thing**_

 **by Christopher R. Martin  
**

* * *

"Alright, one more scour across the city, and then we can call it a day. What do you say, Bubbles?"

"Aye-aye, Blossom, sir. Oops, I mean, aye-aye, Blossom, ma'am."

"That's the spirit. Let's move!"

Bubbles and I zip from one corner of Townsville to another, staying vigilant for any disturbances that require our attention. Whether it's a monster attack, a robbery or assault in progress or a suicide attempt. We search the city in its entirety, navigating through obvious paths and obscure ones. Through every street, every intersection, every alleyway; we leave no stone unturned. Seconds and minutes roll in my head, and I keep count.

Around the eleven-minute mark, we stop patrolling and ultimately find nothing. How strange. It usually takes us less than that to cover all of Townsville. But then I realize that we're one pair of eyes short. A pair of verdant eyes that burn with an aching hunger for battle.

I remain floating on this one spot. I must have taken a good deal of time because Bubbles starts waving her hand right in front of my face.

"Blossom!" she calls out in sing-song. "Earth to Blossom!"

"Huh?" I come to in a few seconds.

"Are we ready to go home?"

For a moment, my answer stays stuck in my throat. Keeping my words in is a persistent image of her. Even when I'm not exchanging looks with her, the mere picture of her face is just as good at swaying me. At completely taking me out of my element.

I shake my head rapidly to dispel these musings. If Bubbles knew that Buttercup's departure from our team is getting to me as much as it gets to her, I won't be hearing the end of it from her. Like, at all. She's going to rub it in my face and gloat about it, I know it. I have that sneaking suspicion, and whenever I have a sneaking suspicion, nine times out of ten they end up being true.

She can't find out. I refuse to let her find out.

"Yeah. Yeah, we are," I say, affecting a sham of a smile to her. Nodding at her as if nothing's wrong.

On the way back, the two of us discuss the upcoming Christmas party tonight. Bubbles does most of the talking, starting off by wondering what sort of food the Professor will be preparing. I tell her that as long as he doesn't make chili tonight, I'm perfectly fine. Actually, I hope that he doesn't make any more of it, period.

The next question she asks is what I'll be wearing for tonight, and I answer by telling her that I haven't decided. She goes on rambling about other details such as what guests might or might not be coming over, how big the party might be compared to the ones we've held before, and the like.

About half way into our trip back home, the sound of police sirens stops us cold in our tracks and cuts Bubbles off in the middle of whatever she's saying. They can't be very far from where we are, and we both press our hands against our ears to pinpoint exactly where they're coming from.

Amidst the blaring sirens, a police radio clicks and buzzes as an officer speaks into it. He's asking for additional units to enter the scene, informing the people on the other side of the line about the multiple hostages inside the building, including the Mayor and Miss Bellum.

The conversation ends with static on the radio and the officer grumbling to himself as he loads his gun, "Where the hell are those Powerpuffs? Seriously"

"That's our cue! Let's move, Bubbles!" I promptly say, and we dart to the scene of the crime.

Through the dome-shaped roof of City Hall the two of us go, and we land inside of the Mayor's office, where the people who work here, including Miss Bellum, are on their knees with their hands behind their heads. Bubbles and I are standing face to face with a man dressed in what appears to be a Kevlar vest underneath a leather jacket. His weapon of choice is a sawed-off shotgun, but I spot a knife tucked in the back of his pants.

"I was betting on the Powerpuff Girls to show up at any minute. Guess I bet my ass right, but last time I checked, there were supposed to be three of you," says the criminal in some sort of frenzy, as if he's on some kind of sugar rush or drug-induced high. His instability evident in his crazed gaze and twitch-riddled smile.

Hostage situations are nothing new, but one glance into this guy's wide-eyed stare tells me to be extra careful, especially since this is Townsville City Hall we're talking about.

"This entire place is surrounded. Stand down now and make it easy for yourself," I explain to him, arms folded and glaring at him. Keeping an eye out for any sudden movements he may try.

"Funny. And I was just about to say the same thing." He spins the swivel chair next to him, revealing the Mayor bound and gagged on it. The sight of him tied up causes my muscles to tighten and my nerves to become like lead. Bubbles too hesitates, her fist shaking.

Cocking the shotgun, the criminal points the barrel against the Mayor's cranium, his finger dancing along the trigger. Drawing out a collective gasp from everyone in the room, including me and Bubbles.

"In case you're wondering, my beef isn't with the Mayor unlike most other people," he starts again, sitting on the desk, comfortable with his position. "It's with you."

His words ice my feet to the floor, and I take a moment to assess the situation. To check my immediate vicinity, to take in all these civilians. When I look at Miss Bellum, she gives me a firm nod and nothing more.

"Whatever you have against us, we can settle it without these people in here. So let them all go," says Bubbles in a calm, collected way. Taking control of the bleak situation.

Her attempt at getting through to him, at a peaceful resolution, is a surprise to me, and a pleasant one at that. It just might be working, since the criminal gets off the desk and draws closer to us, his shotgun still in his hands.

"Oh, you would want that, wouldn't you, you bitch? So what? So the second I let my guard down, you wail on me the same way you wailed on us way back when?"

'Way back when'. He says that to us as if we're supposed to remember him. But neither Bubbles nor I get any sort of idea. When it comes to the criminal element of Townsville, we only really remember the standouts. The repeat offenders or the ones who've left behind such a tremendous impact. Mojo Jojo, Fuzzy Lumpkins, Him, Princess Morbucks, Dick Hardly.

For the sake of everyone in this room, I search the depths of my mind for an answer. But I find that the answers aren't always in my mind. In this case, I find it in this person's face instead. I take in as many aspects of it as I can and piece them together, from the green hair to the braces in his mouth to the nigh-perpetual gleam of bitterness in his eyes.

"Hold on." I raise my hand as if I had an index finger to point with. "Bud?"

"As in Bud Smith?" Bubbles joins in, also stunned.

"Took you long enough." Bud darts his eyes from one side to another and spots a hostage trying to worm her way out the door. He pulls the trigger on his shotgun, eliciting screams from everyone and terrifying the woman back to her original spot.

"Listen, if this is about your Dad, we had no choice."

"Yes, you did!" He slams his weapon onto the desk as he shouts. His face strains back and forth between expressions as he gains his composure. "You know how it is with my dad. He's always had this fantasy of being a supervillain, and he's just dying to live it out, even if only for a while. I used to think he was the coolest, but I've looked back on it recently, and now I think it's kinda sad. That his life wasn't going to amount to anything but packing away mustard jars from nine to five. But y'know what? I thought to myself yeah it was pathetic, but it was the good kind of pathetic. That's the way life goes for Harold Smith and his family." He cocks the gun again and holds it to the side. "And you bitches had to send it all to shit!"

Bud's little tale prevents me from making a move. I ponder on it a bit. There's no doubt in my mind that what Bud is telling me and Bubbles is true. The Smiths are—were—the epitome, the embodiment, of the Average Joe. A life that follows a certain path and rarely, or never, deviates from it. Maybe there's more to this inkling for evil in the family than I initially thought. Maybe it's from some shared desire for their lives to be so much more than what they are.

The more I think about it, the more I agree with Bud. I mean, Harold _did_ think that a hair dryer was a ray gun that could melt someone's head off of their shoulders.

Still, even if we had known this back then, even if it had changed our feelings on the entire matter, it wouldn't have changed our decision. At the end of the day, a superhero has to do what must be done.

A deep sigh escapes my mouth as I am suddenly bombarded with images of my other sister. The black-haired, green-eyed one. You know who I'm talking about.

"Bud, we're sorry about your Dad. But we did what we had to," I say, making no bones about it. "Let these people go now. It doesn't have to be this way."

The air around us is tense, like the gravity is three times stronger than it is. It gets heavier the more the distances narrows.

"It's too little too late for that," he says coldly, propping the gun against the Mayor's head. His finger is against the trigger, and I steel myself and take action.

At least, I am about to, but a flash of green beats me to the punch and swipes the shotgun off of Bud's hands. Out of the streak, Buttercup emerges, shattering the weapon between her knees the same way a toothpick is broken. Effortlessly. With a battle-hardened glare, she lets loose her Heat Ray attack, flinging Bud to the corner of the office, leaving him charred from head to toe. She dashes over to him, holds him in place and nudges her head at the two of us.

Taking in her cue, I race to the double doors and usher everyone outside of City Hall. Bubbles does her part, snapping the Mayor's bounds to pieces and removing his blindfold.

I follow the crowd of people to the City Hall steps and greet one of the officers there, whom I inform that the culprit has been subdued.

"We'll take it from here. Much appreciated as always, Blossom," says the officer, racing inside with his gun in his hand.

As he enters the building, Buttercup zooms out and watches the hostages catch their breath in the myriad of police cars. Bubbles wastes no time approaching our sister and thanking her for lending a helping hand. I pry my face away from them and take calculated breaths.

Part of me is wishing that this would just end, while another part of me is the exact opposite, wanting this scene to play out a little longer. Perhaps it's giving me and Buttercup an opportunity. An opportunity that I acknowledge but don't act on until it's too late.

I too am just about to approach her, but she takes off once I'm within spitting distance of her. Bubbles and I watch her take to the sky, and that thing I feared most happens.

On my blonde, blue-eyed sister's face is a grin that skirts between happy and smug.

"I knew it!" she exclaims as we both head off ourselves.

* * *

The sound of a chiming bell is heard as the Professor opens the oven and the powerful scent of cheese wafts from it. He pulls out a pair of scorching hot trays holding rows of mini-quiches and sets them both on the counter.

"Blossom, would you mind…"

"Way ahead of you, Professor."

Anticipating his request, I float over next to the Professor before he finishes and let out a light stream of my Ice Breath over the food to cool it off. Wisps of steam still flutter from the tray, but it's not blazing hot anymore.

"Um, thank you," says the Professor with a hint of a smile as he goes back to the other foods he's preparing. "Now why don't you and Bubbles hand them out while I finish up here?"

"We'll be right on it." I give him a salute and face the other way, letting out a gasp at what I witness next. "Bubbles!"

She's hovering in front of one of the trays, shoveling mini-quiche after mini-quiche down her mouth. She stops the instant her eyes meet mine and smiles sheepishly, her cheeks bulging and flushed.

"What?" Her garbled speech and nonchalant shrug complement each other.

"Those are for the guests." I fold my arms and tap my feet on the floor, narrowing my eyes at her. But the Professor passes a glance, a chuckle and a slight shake of his head at me all at once, and I drop my icy stare altogether. I mirror his chuckle and shake my head too, directing the gesture at my sister. "Forget it, let's just move. Whatever am I going to do about you?"

With every quiche swiftly and neatly laid out on a silver platter, Bubbles and I dart to the living room and offer each and every guest in here.

They all seem to be enjoying themselves in their own ways. Miss Bellum and the Mayor are chatting it up like they always do, the former sounding far more mature and level-headed than the latter as usual. Miss Keane's lounging around the sofa, having drinks with a few members of the Greater Pokey Oaks Parent Teacher Association. And some of our acquaintances from kindergarten are hanging around our front yard, immersing themselves in the ambient party music, most of which is handpicked by Bubbles; I'm not one to question anyone's taste in…well, anything, but couldn't she have picked other music besides dubstep?

But hey, if everyone's enjoying themselves, who am I to be a stick in the mud?

After the last quiche has been given out, the two of us head back into the house and wash our hands off in the kitchen sink. There, we see the Professor putting the finishing touches on the main course for tonight: a thick, succulent slab of ham glazed in pineapple sauce and adorned with an assortment of herbs and fruits.

Just to be on the safe side, I search the kitchen for any signs of chili. There are none, and thank God for that.

All joking aside, I'm thoroughly impressed by what the Professor's done.

And apparently, I'm not the only one.

"Oooh!" the Mayor ogles from the living room, leaning against the frame. His eyes gleaming like he's under a trance. "Ham!"

Miss Bellum, thankfully, isn't far behind and effortlessly lifts the Mayor off of his feet.

"Sorry, Professor Utonium," she says on his behalf. "It seems no matter what's happened to him, the Mayor can't hold still when food's concerned."

"I know the feeling," I sneak in under my breath, intending for Bubbles to hear me from behind.

"Hey!" she replies, taken aback and giving me a light jab on my forearm.

"That's quite alright, Miss Bellum," says the Professor, taking things in stride as the good-mannered man he always is. "As a matter of fact, I'll just bring this out there, and we can get started. Just give me a second to—"

For what I believe is the twentieth time tonight—or is it the thirtieth? I've lost count—the doorbell rings, catching our attention.

The Professor's brow furrows as he holds his hand against his chin. "Hm? I wasn't expecting another guest tonight."

Neither was I. I rub my own chin and eventually glance at Bubbles, whose smile has become terse all of a sudden.

Uh, girls, would you mind bringing the ham over to the living room? I'm going to go get that?"

Bubbles and I say nothing and lift the platter together, careful not to let any of the sauce splatter on our shirts. Below our feet, the Professor makes his way to the door as the doorbell rings one last time. We set the ham down at the center of the buffet table, but nearly drop it upon seeing who's behind the door.

The entire Powerpuff household goes silent, with the exception of a smooth piano piece playing on the stereo, breaking the dubstep-induced monotony. Everyone inside and outside gazes at the brand new guest. I gaze in her verdant eyes in particular, and two distinct sensations inside of me engage in a heated game of tug-of-war. One side is disdainful at her arrival, while the other welcomes it wholeheartedly. The welcoming part of me—the part of me that empathizes with her, that openly admits my own faults—wins in the end, but my body language only shows a third of that feeling.

Bubbles gently floats to the door, and I follow suit after a couple of seconds. "Hey, Buttercup," my blonde sister greets, but with only a fraction of her typical cheer.

"Hi," I join in meekly, still somewhat intimidated.

"Sorry I'm not dressed for the occasion," asks Buttercup, pulling back the hood of her jacket. Forming an unsteady smile across her mouth. "Am I late to the party?"

The Professor, his hand still gripping the doorknob, puts aside a moment to take everything in. To tell himself that his other daughter really is standing on his doorstep, and that it isn't his imagination toying with him.

A good twenty seconds elapses, and he opens the door wider. He affects an inviting smile, and eventually so do the rest of us.

"It wouldn't be a party without all three of the Powerpuff Girls here," the Professor responds, gesturing to the living room.

Buttercup walks in, not even considering flying at all. Bubbles floats by one side of her, while I float by another. I have something to say, but as I open my mouth, my sister in green raises her hand and shakes her head gently.

"You don't have to say anything," she adds. "For now, why don't we just enjoy ourselves?"

Five seconds, and I give her my answer and a firm nod. "You got it."

The three of us help ourselves to the food prepared on the buffet table, helping each other when we need to. Exchanging smiles that gradually get more comfortable as the night progresses.

I wouldn't exactly call this a happy ending. There's still work to be done in closing this rift that my sister and I have forcibly, unknowingly opened. Superheroes we may be, we're still people at the end of the day. We're going to have our own share of differences that pit us against each other. That's just how life goes.

This may not be the outcome we expected, the outcome that we had hoped, but it's a good start…

* * *

 _Just an experiment. Don't forget to leave a review and whatnot. Thank you.  
_


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